Reading the Bones

Poetry
Marchell Dyon


Photo Credit: Chocorayto/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

She said open your hands
When you did
Her black hands held your dark palms

She began to trace the lines
Every stitch of DNA in your hands
She tells you to flexed your fingers

She tells you,
To hold your fingers straight like a ruler
You watch as she reads the bones

She tells you more than a gypsy’s fortune can
That these are not lines in your hands
It’s your life tree

Branches connecting you to your history
The lives lived before your time
This is your life tree

She said branching out into your existence
Through this life and into the stars of the next
These are your life lines

Roads bending and cross with few dead ends
She considers your hand like a pool of water
A watery veil of knowledge raining down from heaven

“Look!” she assures you, “your lines are long
Your gray hairs will be many
Before your soul spirits away from this world.”

You look to your hands, your eyes all glassy
dancing with wonder, dreaming out loud,
envisioning for one long moment that maybe she is right.

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Marchell Dyon is a disabled poet. She believes her disability has inspired her creative spark. Her poetry has been published in Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, Full of Crow Poetry Magazine, and Rainbow Rose Ezine, Blue Lake Review, A Little Poetry, Medusa’s Kitchen, The Stray Branch, Strange Horizons, Mused Bella Online, Convergence Literary Journal, Silver Blade Magazine and Torrid Literature Journal. She is from Chicago, IL. Email: marchelldyon[at]yahoo.com

 

The Curse

Poetry
Marchell Dyon


Photo Credit: halfrain/Flickr (CC-by-sa)

Photo Credit: halfrain/Flickr (CC-by-sa)

In her prehistoric thinking if no one stoned her
She would throw herself against the rocks
From her arriving spring into the night

She ran away from the moon’s light hunting her every step
She wanted to remain as she was
She did not believe in the evolution of womankind

She wanted her chest not to sprout and flower
She wanted the red wetness between her thighs to stop
You are a woman now, was all the advice

Her grandmother gave with a smile
No more make-believe but woman’s work
No more dolls but babies at your breast

Her older sister had warned her about the curse
Seven times Cain, said her older sister
She looks back at the moon calling her

She tried to shut her ears to the sweet lull of the moon
She knew she could not stay forever hidden from the goddess
But she was determined to try

pencilMarchell Dyon is a disabled poet and budding storyteller. She believes her disability has inspired her creative spark. Her poetry has been published in Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, Full of Crow Poetry Magazine, Rainbow Rose Ezine, Blue Lake Review, A Little Poetry, Medusa’s Kitchen, The Stray Branch, Strange Horizons, Mused Bella Online, Convergence Literary Journal, Silver Blade Magazine and Torrid Literature Journal. She is from Chicago, IL. Email: marchelldyon[at]yahoo.com

As I stand by my window dreaming of falling

Poetry
Marchell Dyon


The Moon Window
Photo Credit: Derek Gavey

Sometimes I wish I could be as vacant from emotions as the moon.
To be just another spirit free to wander,
Behind the fog like the moon is tonight almost too pale to be seen.

Never needing anyone
Never needing hands

I could be seen from the earth falling not like an angel,
But like a star with silver afterburn leaving glitter across the sky.
If I could be like the stars forever shining through the darkness,

Never needing anyone
Never needing hands

As I stand by my window dreaming of falling.
A cool breeze sweeps me and wakes me from my self-impose trance.
I want to be like the moon and the stars feeling only my own soft light.

Never needing anyone
Never needing hands

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Marchell Dyon is from Chicago. Her poem titled “Concrete Love” was published in Toasted Cheese in 2012. Since then her poetry has been accepted and/or published in Full of Crow Poetry Magazine, The Rainbow Rose Ezine, Blue Lake Review, The Stray Branch, and Strange Horizons. She has also won the Torrid Literature’s First Annual Romancing the Craft Award for 2012. Email: marchelldyon[at]yahoo.com

Concrete Love

Beaver’s Pick
Marchell Dyon Jefferson


I love NY & the Hand I'm Holding
Photo Credit: Jason L. Parks

I laugh at words. My mouth is open all the time. As I pass streets, not swell with petals, below a hazy city sun. When my face isn’t press to yours, I see a carnival of oil slick traffic kaleidoscopes. My vision blurs between bakery smells and armpit avenues that make my nose flare; on a very public bus, we get stares. A fat woman with her eyes dares us to stop what we’re doing, but like everyone else; she stares only long enough then leaves us alone. What a pair we are; a likely Romeo and Juliet and not like them at all. Our ebony faces defiant, making out in back seats. We are, all rev up in each tango taste, till saliva, melts away the tongue.

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Marchell Dyon is from Chicago, IL. She has taken various poetry workshops; she is eternally addicted to audio books. She is currently working on her first chapbook. Her work has appeared in Ouroboros Review, West Ward Quarterly, Lily Review, and Corner Club Press. Email: marchelldyon[at]yahoo.com